Shortgrass Song by Mike Blakely Page A

hand. “Wrong fret,” he said, moving Caleb’s fingers to the correct positions.
    Ella was nearby, worrying over her flower garden. She was shading the tender plants with her body, trying to keep the sun from withering them.
    Buster walked over to the garden to see if he could do anything. He found the lilies lying limp across the ground. “Maybe you should plant somethin’ else,” he said.
    â€œI don’t have anything else,” Ella snapped. It irritated her that Buster wouldn’t let her alone to grow her own flower garden.
    â€œIt’s gonna get awful dry,” he said. “Those flowers won’t grow here like they did back in Pennsylvania. You need some flowers that will stand this hot, dry weather. You need some western flowers. There’s wild ones down the creek a ways. All different colors.”
    Ella loosened the strings of her bonnet under her chin. “Mr. Thompson, don’t you have some plowing or other such nonsense to do? I don’t recall asking for your advice.”
    â€œOh. Yes, ma’am.” He touched his hat brim and went back to the wagon to get the rivet bolt.
    â€œIf you’re so smart, Mr. Thompson, you’ll get me some seeds!” she yelled when he started back.
    He knew she was right. “Buster, you’ve got to learn to keep your mouth shut,” he muttered to himself.
    That evening he walked down the creek to look at the wildflowers. He found five or six varieties in bloom. If they were like other plants he had studied, he figured they would go to seed a couple of weeks after blooming. He would just have to watch them closely, check them every other day or so.
    He squatted down to study an orange variety with tiny five-petaled blossoms. Another type grew pink flowers on the ends of meandering stems. He wondered if he could transplant them to Miss Ella’s garden. He decided to bring a spade next time and dig some up.
    The most prolific tribe was the fire wheel. It had multiple lancelike petals, flame-red with yellow tips, leaping like fire from a central hub the size of a vest button.
    A hummingbird attracted him to a stalky variety with small purple blossoms. He thought Miss Ella might like something that would attract hummingbirds. He got down on his stomach to inspect the roots.
    â€œBuster, what in Hades are you doing?”
    He jumped and retreated halfway down the creek bank before he realized it was Ab. “I’m studyin’ these flowers,” he admitted.
    Matthew started laughing. Ab and the boys had gone downstream looking for the cattle and were herding them back toward the dugout for the evening.
    â€œWhat do you want with flowers?” Ab said.
    â€œMiss Ella needs some seeds,” Buster answered.
    â€œShe’s already got five gallons of flower seeds,” Ab said. “Come on and help with these cows—quit wasting your time.”
    â€œHey, Pete!” Matthew shouted. “We caught Buster looking at flowers!”
    *   *   *
    Matthew caught Buster in the wildflower patch several times in the weeks that followed. Buster spent almost every evening there, studying the plants. He tried transplanting a specimen of each to Ella’s garden, but the yellow primrose was the only one that took.
    As summer began, he painstakingly collected the tiny seeds shed by the different varieties. He put them in envelopes he made of paper scraps and labeled them: fire-wheel, butterfly weed, bird’s eye, primrose, prairie aster. When the time was right, he intended to make a gift of them to Ella.
    While on his last foray down to the wildflower patch, Buster happened to glance across the creek to see Long Fingers and a dozen braves watching him. The chief waved. He had seven spare horses and three Holcomb cows with him. As he led his party across the creek, he put Buster’s old harmonica in his mouth and began to blow on it. He avoided the high notes and droned